America's Pain
by L-chan the Great
Summary: Hated by even his own citizens, America feels himself wasting away, until England comes around to snap him out of his depression.  Rated T for mild language.


**Something that came to mind, slowly, while thinking about the absolute _hatred_ people feel for Americans. I began to even feel ashamed of America. Then I realized something. I can't help where I was born, and it's not my fault if people decide to believe the various stereotypes of Americans, and hate me for things my _country _did, of which I've taken no part of. I now refuse to feel ashamed, and I will proudly tell the world I am, in fact, an American, no matter what happens.**

**Another note, I know that not everyone in foreign countries hate Americans. Not everyone believes in stereotypes, because that's just what they are. I mean no offense to anyone in other countries, nor to other Americans.**

**Also, I got part of this idea from a Hetalia kink meme prompt, which said that Americans often tell foreigners that they're Canadian to avoid ridicule. I don't remember the entire prompt. Please enjoy!**

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><p>The room was a mess. Empty beer cans littered the ground, hidden under couch cushions and pillows. The lamp had been knocked to the floor in a drunken rage—light bulb shattered, lamp shade crushed and tossed away—and formidably sharp glass glittered dangerously from the carpet. Stinking, wrinkled clothes lay in a heap directly by the bed. A pack of beer had replaced the lamp on the bedside table. A trembling figure sat, covered in several blankets. The room was dark, but it didn't matter much anymore. All he did was drink and sleep anyway.<p>

Slowly, America was losing his will to live. Unfitting for a hero, he knew, but he actually stopped caring a long time ago. He'd stopped caring about a lot of things, including his favorite activities. The last time he touched a hamburger was… He didn't even know when the last time was. His memories nowadays were foggy, the days a blur of dreams and drunkenness. He hadn't left his single-bedroom apartment in weeks, whereas before he was constantly out of it, complaining that it was too small for a hero of his status. Now, he felt it was much too big.

He pulled the blankets tighter about his body as a wave of depression washed over him. Once the worst of it passed, and the tears stinging his eyes died away, he reached over and grabbed another beer, hoping to wash away the pain tugging at his heart. He was well aware that if he was a human, he'd be drinking himself to an early death, but he didn't care.

It wasn't like anyone cared for him. Even his own citizens didn't acknowledge him. They'd rather talk about their familial blood, than boast of their birthplace. That was why he never left the house, even to wander his own country. He'd heard the conversations before. "I'm part German, part French." "Oh, well, I'm German, French, _and _British!" Even those with Native American ancestors claimed to be Indian, rather than Native American. It was Indian reservations, Indian casinos… Even when none of their ancestors ever set _foot _in India!

America tilted his head back and chugged the beer. Wiping the trail of amber liquid from his chin, he crushed the can in his hand. The sharpened aluminum bit his skin angrily, but he still held the can tightly, not yet ready to relinquish to the pain. Finally, he tossed it off the bed, to join the many other cans he never bothered to throw away. The room was a blur, but not from tears this time. Somewhere in the mess were his glasses. His blue eyes looked strange without them.

He hiccupped and fell back against the pillow. His brown hair spread out on the soft surface around his head. It had grown long with the weeks of neglect, and was now a tangled mess. He stared at the deep cut in his hand, watching the crimson blood accumulate, then slowly make its path down his hand, running in twisting rivulets, mingling and separating over his palm, then finally joining to drip down his wrist. It took so long for his wounds to heal now. He wasn't sure if it was from the lack of nutrition and exercise, or from the betrayal American citizens. It was worse abroad, when foreigners asked what country they were from. Instead of standing tall and proud, stating they were American, even when they knew they'd be faced with ridicule, the Americans said they were from Canada. It hurt America to see his beloved citizens, whom he lived and would die for, claim they were citizens of his twin brother. Worse than the hatred of other nations, was the shame of his own citizens. He felt like garbage. He'd known for decades that other nations just barely put up with his antics, but he could bear it with a cheerful smile, because his citizens _loved _him and were _proud _to be Americans.

That wasn't the case anymore.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd attended a World Conference meeting. America preferred to sit in his room, staring at the phone when it rang. His boss used to call, requesting his opinion on various matters, or asking him to do something. America never picked up, even to his boss, and eventually his boss just stopped calling. Another frequent caller was England. At first the bushy-eye-browed man sounded angry, telling America first for not picking up the phone, and then for not attending the latest meeting. America could imagine the shorter nation's ridiculous eyebrows riding low over his green eyes, his blond hair standing on end from anger, like a cat. At first, the image made America laugh a little, but now he didn't even crack a smile.

America was definitely losing it, if he couldn't even make fun of England.

After the first few calls, mostly expressing anger, England's tone began to change. He sounded more worried for his former younger brother, and was soon practically begging for America to pick up. He'd even started using America's human name, hoping it would entice America to answer the phone.

The last message sounded something like this:

"Oh, bollocks Alfred! Pick up this bloody phone! Where the bloody hell have you been? If you're in your room drinking, then I'll pound you into the ground! Please answer the phone, Alfred! If you don't, I'll come over, I swear, and I'll break your door in!" There was a pause as England gave America a chance to answer. "Damn it, Alfred, you bloody wanker! You better hope you're sober by the time I get there, or I swear I'll kill you!" America couldn't help but think England sounded a lot like a nagging girlfriend.

He mostly ignored the message though. There was no doubt in his mind that England would be over here in moments, but he didn't think England had the strength to break through his door. So he remained huddled under the many blankets and reached his hand, still covered in dried blood, and grabbed another beer.

Moments after he'd chugged his fifth beer that day, there was a knocking at the door. America frowned. He wasn't even buzzed yet, and he needed to be drunk if he was going to deal with a nagging England. So he reached for another as England began pounding on the door, demanding for America to open it that instant. Of course, the older nation was blatantly ignored.

There was a sudden crack and the door slammed open, making the walls of his apartment shiver with the force. America froze, the can pressed to his lips, the cold exterior promising a delightful escape. He couldn't believe the weak-bodied Brit had actually broken down the door.

He stared in amazement as the smaller nation burst into the room. "Alfred, damn it, what are you—Ow!" England hopped around on one foot after stepping on one of the crushed cans. Unlike in America's case, the injury healed quickly before any blood could spill.

England was dumbstruck by the chaos of the room. His eyes slowly travelled down the wall, across the floor, and finally to the pitiful figure that was America. "Al—Alfred… What happened to you?" he asked, his voice dropped to a horrified whisper.

America hid beneath the blankets. "Nothing, Iggy, just go away," he demanded. His voice was so choked with despair that it tugged at England's heartstrings.

Stepping carefully over the various hazards in the room—particularly broken glass and aluminum cans—England made his way to the bed. He climbed on it, and tugged at the blankets surrounding America. They came away without any resistance, and slowly, America emerged, like a once-caterpillar braking from a cocoon. Except, instead of a beautiful butterfly, America appeared as a wretched mess; grime covered his skin and dark bags formed under his eyes.

England didn't know how to react. He'd never seen America in this state. The taller, albeit younger, nation was always so exuberant and cheerful, coming up with the most ridiculous ideas, exclaiming about his various heroics, and just being an ignorant asshole to pretty much everyone without a care in the world. The nation in front of him was different, overtaken by some wound deep in his heart. Did all that sorrow he always stubbornly pushed away finally catch up with him?

"America, what's going on? Why are you like this?" England asked, concern filling his voice. The filth made him want to cry and back away from America with utmost speed.

America shrugged, not bothering to pull the blankets back up. The just-opened beer can he never drank was on the floor now, spilling its contents onto the carpet, making yet another stain to match the rest of the room. "Oh you know, the economy sucks, and citizens can't agree over the simplest matters, and everyone hates each other… I wouldn't doubt it if we were on the edge of another Civil War," he said vaguely, but something in America's tone made England doubt that any of those explanations he gave was the true reason America was like this.

England grabbed America's wrist and forcibly pulled him from the bed. It was no easy feat, considering America was much bigger than England, and had definitely gained significant weight. "We're. Getting. Out of. This room!" England announced, finally managing to get America to his feet.

America only shrugged. "I don't really want to…" he said.

England was determined though. He spun America around and pushed him in the bathroom. "You're going to take a shower, and then we're going out!" he said, shutting the door.

It took much too long for America to wash himself. He listlessly washed himself, standing under the hot water until it turned cold. England, meanwhile, had picked out a suit that America wore to the World Conference meetings. When America saw what England chose for him to wear, he didn't complain as he usually would, and simply put the outfit on. Now England's worry tripled. It wasn't like America to obey him like this.

"First things first, we need to get you a haircut," England said, and drove to the nearest barbershop. Soon, America's hair was back to normal, although his glasses were still missing. England had gone to the eye doctor while America was getting his hair cut and purchased a new pair of glasses.

Finally, America looked like his old self. The only problem was the aura of gloom that hung over him. Even with England's constant badgering, America hadn't given any clue to the darkness in his heart, only giving vague answers of things that _could _be bothering, but which obviously _weren't_.

England took America to his country, hoping that a change of scenery might do him well. Unfortunately, it seemed to only deepen the nation's depression. England just couldn't understand it.

"Hey, which country are you from?" The suspicious voice was from one of England's citizens.

England noticed America stiffen slightly as he recognized the interrogated person as one of his own citizens. "Iggy, let's go, let's go," America said, tugging at England's sleeve, sounding panicked.

"Wait, what's gotten into you Amer—I mean Alfred?" England had nearly forgotten that they needed to use human names in front of the non-nations.

"Nothing, let's just go." America's eyes were fixed forward.

The American citizen finally spoke. "Canada, of course!" the citizen lied nervously.

England heard the hitch in America's breath at those words. The taller nation gave up trying to get England to come along, and ran away.

"Alfred! Where are you going?" England took off after the fleeing nation.

America stopped in an alleyway, huddling in one of the shadows, just as he'd been huddling underneath a cocoon of blankets. England froze, unsure what to do. Slowly, he approached the crouching nation. He knelt down. "America?" he said, puzzled.

"England!" Without warned, America launched himself forward, holding onto England for dear life. "You heard that, didn't you? My citizens are ashamed of me! They're too afraid of ridicule! I'm worthless as a nation!" he cried.

England held onto the other nation, stroking the back of his head and running his fingers through his hair. It was a scene that happened often when America was just a kid, running to his big brother for comfort. "You're not worthless. But you act like a bloody asshole to the other nations, so what do you expect?" England winced, realizing how harsh his words sounded.

"I know, I know!" America said. Worry seized England's heart. America never admitted fault to anything. "But why should my citizens take the blame for it? They didn't do anything! It's all my fault! Damn it! They can't do anything about being an American! Why should the world be so horrible that they live in shame of their own nation? Damn it, damn it, I'm so worthless!"

"No, America, it's not your fault! It's none of the nations' fault! Humans are just like this!" England said, afraid of America's outburst.

"If I was just a little more heroic, this wouldn't happen to them, damn it!" America's tears were soaking England's clothes, but neither nation cared at the moment.

"America." England took on a no-nonsense tone. "It is not your fault. You can't help what the humans do to each other. You're younger than the rest of us, so you don't understand. You are the nation that brought together those persecuted because of where they were born, or for their beliefs. One day, your citizens, and all the others around the world, will remember that, and then they will be able to stand proud, and defend you fiercely." England pulled America away and gave him a gentle smile. "You're very heroic as it is," he added.

For a while, America stared at England as the words sunk in. Eventually, they reached his heart, and a smile tentatively broke out over his face—the first one he'd had in weeks. He wiped away the tears and stood up. "Yeah, you're right! I'm still the hero, and heroes can't sit around and cry because no one recognizes it! It's like Batman!" America jumped, punching the air. "Yes! I'm just like Batman, and one day everyone will realize what an awesome hero I am!"

England couldn't help but laugh a little. "I see you're back to normal," he said.

America clapped a hand on England's shoulder. "I sure am, and it's all thanks to you, old man!" he said.

England glared. "I'm not that old!" he shouted.

America only laughed. "You're very old, Iggy! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a world to save!" he said, and ran off.

All England could do was stare as the formerly depressed nation ran away. "Bollocks, he's definitely back to his old self," he said, and sighed. He was beginning to doubt his sanity for helping America get back to his annoying cheerfulness.

Finally England shrugged. "Oh well, I guess it's for the best," he said to the magical creatures surrounding him.

Yep, he was definitely insane.


End file.
